Friday, 11 July 2014

the book of us

the melting will happen
in the heat of your arms
where i will make it clear to you
with the arch of my back
and the clinging of my fingers
that the book of us
is yet to be written.

the melting will happen,
happen in space, and in time.
this is not a journey of
the brain, we have a physicality
that lusts for something other,
that cries for relief
from the singular story.

right now distance
is our aphrodisiac
as we send out our proxies,
the surges that alert us
of this being no ordinary fiction
but a fact as solid as
the truth in my eyes
and in my songs of yearning.

the melting will happen
and our appetites will be sated.

the melting will happen
and it will become our foundation.

the melting will happen.

Saturday, 24 May 2014

love

love crosses my path
like a black cat
with cankerous ears
and weeping grey eyes.
he shutters his eyes and
flicks me his spastic tail
on his way through to score
some catnip from my garden.
he kind of reminds me
of william burroughs,
so i let him pass.

how come trouble
can track me down no
matter where i am, but
good news forgets my address
i wonder as i am discovered
cumming during
a routine
strip
search.
only obeying the laws of nature, officer.”

and just when did it get
to be a good idea,
already caffeine edgy,
to take a bath
with a coffee grinder?
probing the depths
of my stunted cunt
with hot hands
and slippery fingers.
my shadow lets me
know she's dropped it,
the water buzzes me
she's caught it.
the moon feels compassion,
but no respect.


Thursday, 15 May 2014

chances are

i've been cleaning the house up slowly, preparing for... armageddon? my doctor says i should view this new development more positively, and despite the obvious paradigm shift i do consider the diagnosis for a moment but then the beat poets whisper in my ear through the aid of modern technology telling me we are all merely mammals, all eat, shit, crave, love, lose. i'd like to think i carry their flame or at least a spark of it but until i stick it under a spoonful of goof ball juice or sleep rough i am just a pretender.

i take my battle to the page where recycled words turn full circle to bite me in the tender parts and i am trampled by my best intentions. but grouping my thoughts does not make them any more palatable so i have to find the freedom in ripping on the page where nothing really matters. we've all cleaned up broken glass before, where temptation sits glinting, asking the question, daring you to answer.

i want to speak secrets locked up in vaults, dry truths that blow dust under closed doors and down cul de sacs. i want to run with the lions in cites dangerous, chew up my shoes in parts unknown. i want to clear out the dander of shelves full of notebooks to find just the right word for every occasion. i want to break free of the place where grieving is a noun and not a verb. i am not grief, i grieve and then i am done.

and although i am often beyond the pale the grip of addiction still splits me with a force as hard as good and evil, as powerful as yes and no. so i'm hanging with the hedonists and too timid to commit to the spirituality of it but behind my eyes and in my synapses there's a crackle with the possibilities of another lifestyle, another talent, another virtue. chances are...


this is a slam poem

this is not a slam poem,
it's not a love poem either,
i'm not trying to sweep you away.
this is a poem that made me reach for
a knife and not a pen to write it.

this is not a slam poem.
it's not a warm handshake either.
i'm very nervous you know
so this may all be a clammy delirium.

this poem has the expectations of a fire extinguisher.

this is not a slam poem.
it's not an occasion for self congratulation either
especially not on my birthday,
what am i going to say to myself?
bravo, you're not dead...?
no, i've got the stage and i say
fuck the world and fight on punks!

this poem carries its stuff around in broken suitcases.

this poem was written at bus stops and
in the supermarket, where i am edgy
and indecisive. some parts,
the brighter parts
were written outside
in the sunshine
while i was looking at trees.

this poem is well into its third trimester.

this poem is a tenuous blending
of me and my persona, and
although it may be one rung up
from bedlam i can see
the poetry of mapping the moon
with my eyes, misusing my manners
and mopping up my own muddy footprints.

this poem was written with more need than want.

this poem was written because this moment is all we have.

this poem accepts its punishment.

this is a slam poem.

this is not an occasion for self congratulation

the boys who know i’m touched already don’t touch me, and the others bombard with an irrelevant litany that only goes to reinforcing my low self esteem.

but this is not a conversation with myself.

it is an invitation to elsewhere, an unsteady stumble of hyperbole before we call in the editors. it is a fight for art and freedom, a saying no to the ordinary to find the voice that is truly unique.

i know i need some outside help but writing’s an internal struggle that you win when you surrender, surrender to the coffee splats and tear stains on the page, surrender to the adrenalin that gives your words their power, surrender to the moment when time stops – and the pen keeps moving.

so look for the ideas that are edgy, frenetic, keen to be born. feel as they churn and kick in your head and your gut then take it to the mat as you wrestle with the pedestrian to wrangle your thoughts to the page.

don’t throw down words like talking, speak a deeper meaning. discover the subtext in a personal moment exposed or something taken. embrace the bastard child inside to tell a second story that comes from a place that’s forceful, not forced, felt and not found.

then fly, soar, less is more but travel it all. step sideways to be the seconds before the parachute opens, the spark that connects the synapses, the wave that washes us all away.

the boys who know i’m touched already don’t touch me, but this is not a conversation with myself.


places

So you're sitting on the bus only the bus isn't going anywhere, the bus is stationary/The bus is stationary, you are going nowhere/You have boarded this bus in the hope of going somewhere/You have boarded this bus with the expectation of going places/There is a rumble, a rumble underneath/The bus rumbles under you to signal the ignition of the engine/The engine is starting up and your expectations grow/The bus remains stationary but has the potential for movement/You now have potential/You now have potential but no control/

The bus moves/You have no control so you move too/Now you are moving you have lost your potential to move/You now have no potential and no control/You still have your expectations/Your expectations to go places has stopped growing but remains high/The bus moves on/The bus is going places/You are going places/This is a good thing as you are looking for your place/Once upon a time you thought you knew your place but you were wrong/Things went wrong at your place until it wasn't your place anymore/Your place for now is the back of a bus, a bus that is going places/

The bus moves quickly/The bus increases your speed to such an extent that you are left with that awful feeling in your gut/You are feeling awful/The buses speed increases/The nausea in your gut increases to tell you that you have no idea who is driving this bus or your destination/Your gut is telling you that this is a critical juncture in your trip/Your nauseous gut is now explaining that you should have checked a few things before boarding/You think your gut has some nerve waiting til now to speak up/You keep your mouth shut/You stumble to the front of the bus where the driver tells you this is the express/The bus driver then commands you back to your seat with a series of hand gestures/You are sent with a series of hand gestures back to your seat with no more information than when you left it/Your gut reemerges to tell you you'd better find a fucking clue and fast, faster than this psychedelic succubus can go/

Things take a turn for the worst/You take a turn for the worst/The bus makes a turn that takes you into dangerous territory/Your expectations do not so much drop as take a diabolical turn/Our potential has now turned sinister/The bus is still moving/The bus is still moving but you are no longer going places, you are going to a place – to a place unknown/


Now there is no outside, now there is only inside, inside the bus/Places have vanished to be replaced by the inside of the bus/You look around/You look around yourself but do not like what you see/What you see is not so much the inside of the bus as the inside of a syphilitic brain from the eighteen hundreds/What is really around you is the culmination of every childhood nightmare you ever suffered /

Things emerge from the surface of the pus/Emerging things surface in a threatening way/The bus speeds through unseen places/You wish you could see the places you are speeding through but all you can see are the threatening shapes emerging from the surface of the pus/The emerging shapes turn into circus clowns in name only as they assume positions you have only ever read about in the darkest pornography/They leer at you and lick their lips in a vicious invitation/They threaten you/You are threatened with a fervor that brings the snakes out/The snakes come out to become involved with the sex acts you are witnessing/Your bile rises/Your bile rises and your screams in no way indicate your approval of the situation/The skin crawls right off your body/You try to fight it but the snakes slither right under your skin, flaying you in a very non-consensual way/You are consenting to nothing/The blessed darkness takes you, but not for long/The darkness isn't long but long enough to make you think that this catastrophe has finally stopped, you think you have finally fucking reached your destination/You think you may have reached your destination but the torment starts all over again/

The torment starts all over again with a phosphorescent  stench as fire shoots through your spine/The bus speeds on, oblivious to your pain/The sideshow slaughterhouse continues and dismembered limbs are thrown to smack you around the face and body/Your face and body are slimed by the secretions of a thousand sex acts/

The live ones rise/The live ones rise up/You can see in their eyes they are not yet satisfied/Their heavy makeup, gruesome smiles and erect cocks in no way indicate any satisfaction/You look/You look at their gruesome smiles and you think they are dancing a jig but the jigs they are dancing are actually death throes and grand mal seizures/The carnage continues as the bus careens through places unknown/You don't know the place you will end up but as the dwarfs and misfits approach you are approaching a place of acceptance, acceptance of your own demise/

The bus slams to a staggering stop/The bus stops so staggeringly that you stagger back to smash your head against the back window with the inertia of the situation/The inertia of the situation smashes your head on the back window then throws you forward, through the monstrosities happening around you, through the now open door at the front of the bus/You are birthed from the bus so abruptly, thrown to the curb in a dark alley next to a nowhere truck stop so fast that you do not even have time to tip the driver/

Wednesday, 30 April 2014

thirty

lou reed is not tom waits.

turns out that morrissey was writing gay love songs.

elvis in leather, oh my.

when it takes longer to listen to a song than write it 
you must have a bustle in your hedgerow.

the verb to use for listening to music through earbuds
is mainlining.

blondie is.

back to the reed/waits thing, they are both actual angels,
it's just...

some songs demand spontaneous dancing, they are your totems.